


Tavern on the Water

by thesunkid



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunkid/pseuds/thesunkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You wander down the lane and faraway…” — Stardust by Hoagy Carmichael and Mitchell Parish</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tavern on the Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [giallodinapoli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giallodinapoli/gifts).



The pier is dotted in milk lights, the rippling nimbi at their feet spilling off into the bay. Tavern on the Water is open late to catch the lonely stragglers. Two hours past midnight, it’s as hazy as the dock. Amistad, the owner, grabs his coat and glances back at the form hunched over the bar. He shakes his head softly before walking over to clink a set of keys against an empty bottle of scotch.

“Bed’s in the back,” he says and when the man doesn’t reply he sighs, “Just, lock up when you’re done Bruce, alright?”

Bruce nods absently, pouring himself two fingers from another bottle.

Amistad watches him for a moment before giving up with an exaggerated huff and steps out the door.

Alone, Bruce sets his glass on the counter still full and relaxes against it with a small sigh. His loosened tie slips a little further down his shirt and his forgotten suit jacket hangs heavy on a nearby chair. The fog’s rolled in, past the window sills and door jambs.

She used to be beautiful—a timeless piece of waterfront property back in the Forties. People used to line up for miles down the pier just for a drink or two. And she’d take them all, polished and primed like a mother of pearl. So bright, they’d said, she’d blow out the moon.

But she’s just a husk of that now, old and hard and trapped in the past. Like him.

A light overhead blinks suddenly before flashing out. The sparks fizzle and twitter as they rain down. A few stragglers catch themselves in Amistad’s keys, flaring brighter than ever for a moment then disappearing forever. Bruce twists around and runs a finger along the teeth.

It was nice of him to offer, but he can’t. He can’t go back there for the night. He’s not even sure why he’s even here. They’d discovered this place together. Dick had taken one look at the place and begged him to save it. It’d been theirs; their little secret. They’d run away here several times, hiding together in the back room. In fact they’d woken up here the morning of—

Bruce snatches the glass and knocks it back. Swiftly pocketing the key, he pulls on his jacket and heads to the door for his coat. He shouldn’t be here. 

On the way another light dies in a bounce of sparks across the room. He shakes them off, but turns at the last minute to see some make their final trek upon the piano. He stops.

It’s one of the few things to survive the Tavern’s test of time. Bruce remembers the day they’d found her, buried under all the junk in the back room.

“She’s beautiful,” Dick had breathed, “She’s perfect.”

Bruce hadn’t known he could play, but he’d smiled and relaxed against the door jamb to listen.

Dick had laughed brightly, running his fingers across the dust strewn keys. “I can’t” he admitted softly, “My mom could, though. She’d always find time to take me around to malls every time we stopped, just to get a little time to play.”

Hot wax drips freely onto the floor as the wicks blink in and out, dotting the room in burnished gold. They twinkle like stars, each bit of flame rippling to the twink and ring of piano keys.

She’d needed to be tuned almost immediately and Bruce watched Dick as he hovered excitedly over the service worker. As soon as he’d finished, Dick had jumped onto the seat and pawed at the keys with an animated flourish. He’d flushed childishly when Bruce shot him a look before gently fixing his hands and straightening his back.

He had been taught to play at an early age, a part of his privileged upbringing. In fact Alfred had personally taken over when he proved too rowdy for his paid teachers.

She needs to be tuned again, he notes absently, the last few notes still ringing in the air.

“Bravo.”

Bruce drops his hands to his sides.

“What are you doing here?” he asks resolutely keeping his head down.

His audience exhales lightly, the smile almost audible, and reaches a hand out to a nearby chair, but he overshoots it just a little and the legs jump forward. “Dick,” Bruce growls, his hands tightening over the edge of the bench.

Dick sighs heavier this time, but obediently remains where he is.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m fine.”

It doesn’t move him; Bruce just remains rooted to the piano, body stiff and eyes clouded.

Dick heaves a sigh. “Tim drove me,” he amends, sinking into a second chair. Bruce glances up worriedly for moment watching in slow motion the relaxation and fall of Dick’s weight.

It’s awkward only to the trained eye, slight hesitation prolonging the movement. It burns at him: every unnecessary turn and hitch of muscle. It doesn’t suit him; a series of pits and falls in an otherwise fluid stream. He can’t voice it. Knowing if he does, Dick will spout some drivel about lighting and filmy sea fog.

It’s a lie. They both know it. It’s the eyes; he can’t see, may not ever—

“Stop.”

Bruce jerks up.

“Stop it Bruce. I know what you’re doing.” Dick swivels forward and sets his shaded face on Bruce’s. “It’s not your fault.” He can feel the gaze grow soft as Dick unconsciously tilts his head. “It’s temporary,” he whispers, “You know that.”

And he does. He may not remember how he’d gotten from the docks to the hospital and from the hospital back to the manor, but he remembers that.

Vitreous hemorrhage. Not as bad as it could have been, but still cause for alarm. Over time the blood would clear and vision would return. But until then Bruce couldn’t stay, not when he put Dick at risk for further injury.

Dick fingers at the table, the gentle slide echoing loudly in both their ears. “It’s not your fault,” he breaths, “It’s not.”

But it was. They’d come out of the back room, disheveled and pink, but happy and glowing when it’d happen all over again: another no name street walker, nervous and petty, brandishing a stolen handgun and demanding money.

They were a target. He’d made him a target. Bruce can’t remember when (maybe when he’d first laid eyes on the boy), but he’d done it. Word spread quickly here, like venom on route to the heart. It pumped itself deep into the lower levels of Gotham and soon every crack and corner knew the name of Wayne’s beautiful lithe lover.

No name barked orders again and again, and when Dick tried to assuage him he met with the butt of a gun and the back of a wall. Down he went, out cold before even the hitting the ground and Bruce was on him with a roar, seizing the rat’s collar and shoving him harshly against the wall. Again and again and again.

The Tavern creaks as a number of chairs are shoved to the side and slowed heavy footfalls make their way to the piano. Bruce feels old—worn and old. In the waning candlelight, he thinks he sees bits of silver threaded through Dick’s dark locks. He brushes a few fingers to the side of own head, feeling his own mass of age.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“I know,” Dick replies, cradling Bruce’s head to his chest, “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Tavern on the Water is a real place in Boston. It is not, at least to my knowledge, like the one depicted in this fic. I only borrowed the name after a quick Google search.


End file.
